


Isalan Pala Na

by Washedawaycloud



Series: Mar Bellanaris Alas'nir [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Dirty Talk, F/M, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Knotting, Licking, Magical Healing Cock, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Self-Fisting, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, elven dirty talk, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: That awkward, awful moment when you not only get tossed into a world you don't know, but your body twists to make you fit in. Because going into heat without knowing that's a thing is super great. Which it isn't, until it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this attacked me today while I was working on Lasa Em'an Lath Ma. Because every modern girl deserves to get tossed into the abo trope, right??  
> And then it got sort of feelsy? Idek I just hope ya'll like it.

Jayla had been feeling warm all day. Which she had simply put down to the new armor she wore. It was perfect for traipsing through the snow and bitter winds of Emprise du Lion. She hadn’t felt the bite of the wind anywhere but her face, where she couldn’t keep the wind from reaching her skin. Thedas hadn’t perfected winter face masks just yet.

As a woman, well past the first rigors of maturity, the dancer knew her body well enough she overlooked the warning signs. Her cycle had never been regular. When she was a girl, just entering puberty, the lack of cycle had been put down to her rigorous dance training – as it is for most girls in her field and similar. As she grew older, it quickly became apparent there was more going on. College hit, and she knew what her body was, or in this case, wasn’t doing correctly. A blessing and a curse, the blessing that she’d rarely have to deal with a period. The curse – heightened odds of cancer, and children would be hard to have happen, should she want them when she found someone to share her life with.

But, after literally falling into Thedas, Jayla hasn’t given it any thought. No one spoke to her about the quirks of biology. There are the odd whispers, and Jayla is aware of the secondary genders. But no one explained it, no one questioned her as to her orientation, and she, in turn, didn’t look farther into something that was very clearly not spoken of in polite conversation. It is folly all around, had someone thought to confirm her status, or just explain things she clearly didn’t understand, this situation that is mounting could have been avoided.

As it is, it can’t, and just before dusk, as they make for an Inquisition campsite, Jayla doubles over with a startled gasp. It hits her so hard she can’t make sense of it, dropping to her knees, one arm cradling her middle, the other elbow deep in the snow. It’s a bit like when her magic hit her, a sudden fierce feeling that leaves an ache. Only this time, the ache doesn’t dissipate; her blood rushes through her as the world bursts into startling clarity. She can smell the snow, distinguish it from the air around her, two scents that are usually identical to her nose.

Sera crouches in front of her, the trickster’s brows furrowed as she peaks. Jayla doesn’t hear her, she can see the woman is speaking, but the words don’t sink in, don’t register.  What the Inquisitor can absorb, however, is that she can fucking _smell_ Sera. Leather, ale, the faint traces of Sandalwood oil that the blonde only used when they went home to Skyhold. The former two scents are strong, along with something warm, something entirely Sera. The information, the sensation, makes the black woman reel, a high plaintive sound breaking from her throat without permission. It is a sound she would never normally make, being a natural alto and preferring to drop her voice rather than raise it in pitch.

The noise makes everyone around her freeze. Sera’s eyes are as big as saucers, reminding Jayla of the emaciated alien looking elven children in the Alienages and Dalish camps. There is panic clear in the depths of them as the archer watches their leader fall into something no one had anticipated.

“We have to move her, get her out of here, _now_.” Cassandra barks the order, the words, but doesn’t move toward Jayla herself. She had not thought – Jayla had showed none of the signs of having a designation. Though, no one thought to speak to her about it, not when her strangeness was explained as being case of otherworldliness. Besides, it is not done that way. Parents teach their children, or a trusted relative (or relatives) guide newly presented teens into their new life. This – is rare. It is dangerous. Cassandra looks to the other party members, eyes sharp and critical. Solas is stock still, blue eyes trained on the landscape, on anything other than their leader.

To think they had arranged for her to live with him after her cabin had been damaged in Haven. It was stupidity. Had she presented then – it would have been an unmitigated disaster. It is now, one they can keep to a minimum however, if they move quickly enough. Still, neither Alpha can bring themselves to move toward the woman who is so clearly descending into her first heat.

“Sera, you need to help her up. Solas and I can’t – “

“Yeah. Got it.” The beta bursts into her customary flurry of action, grabbing at Jayla’s arm, pulling it from the snow and slinging it around her shoulders while her other arm clamps around the other woman’s waist. They are up in seconds, with Sera looking at the Alphas. When neither say anything, she sighs and shakes her head.

“We can’t take her to the camp. Tossers will all fight over her, or worse, attack her. Can’t stay out here, place is still crawling with Red Templar swots.”

“The keep – Suledin, the one we claimed from the ‘choice spirit, Ishmael, we are near it, and it will provide her cover until this passes. I can ward it, make it so anyone who does try for her must go through all of us first, and many, many traps.” It’s the first time Solas has spoken since Jayla went to her knees in the snow. His voice is rough, and he takes a decided step away from the two smaller women. His hands are clenched down around his staff as he trains his eyes on Cassandra.

“We will need to send word to the others, to ask Dorian and Vivienne to come and usher Jayla through this. We cannot keep her safe in this condition.” He, specifically, can’t keep her safe, not when she’s like this. He’d always considered Jayla’s scent appealing. She is so meticulous about being clean, her scent is always there, always in his nose. Partially because they had lived together for the better part of a year, and partially because she trusts him the most of their merry band of misfits. He is the one who she comes to when she is touch starved, knowing he is likely feeling the same or worse.

She smelled so like amber when she had just rinsed perfume, sweat, and grime from her skin. And the perfume he knows her to favor, it is all roses, apples, orchids and just a hint of blooms he knows to only grow in the Northern most islands. Appealing, _always_ appealing. He can’t imagine how she will smell in just a few hours, hell, in the next half hour.

He has never scented true desire on her before. Interest, yes. Fear, adrenaline, excitement, happiness, and sadness. He knows how those emotions make her scent change. But this? It is entirely different, right now her body will be drenched in desire, advertising her fertility, her lack of a mate. Solas is more than thankful that her armor is keeping her fragrance at bay. The chill of the air keeps his head on straight as he lurches forward to lead them to Suledin Keep. Cassandra takes up the rear guard, all three of them keeping sharp eyes on the horizon and periphery as they walk.

At present, Jayla won’t attract Alpha’s or leave a trail for them to follow. She is too early into her affliction, thank the spirits. However, the plaintive sounds she makes? Those will mark them as an easy target. They do not need the added complication of being ambushed with a fighter down, and a ripe omega to protect.

“Sera, what’s going on?” Her voice is small and shakes as she questions the blonde girl currently half hauling her through the snow.

The blonde takes all a moment to look at her before her face turns into a grim line. “You’re in heat.”  It’s blunt, and throws Jayla.

Heats were for dogs, cats, _animals_. People were mammals, but – heat animals? No way. “What the fuck does **that** mean? What the _fuck_ , Sera!”

The panic in the Inquisitor’s voice makes the Tempest groan and hang her head for a moment. “Shite. You really don’t know.” Void take otherworlders. Almost as bad as magic shit. “I’m not the one to tell you about this, not got the flowery words or nothing. We need Viv and Dorian. Viv’s a stone-cold bitch, yeah? But she can explain it. Dorian too. They can help ya. Probably got magic for it, magey magic bastards the lot of ya.”

Because _that_ makes so much sense as an answer. Jayla tries to refrain from further swearing. She does. In fact, she takes a deep breath to quell the desire to swear as something inside her twists tight.

Instantly, Jayla is assaulted by Solas. His scent. She could pick it out anywhere, in a room filled with a thousand men, she knew that scent. It had permeated their little cabin for near six months. Parchment, wool, leather, they all hang around him near constantly. But under that? When he’s just come out of a stream or the bath? He smells wild, like forest and rain, with some dark undertone that marks him male and now makes her shiver violently. Solas smells like _hers_. Her mouth opens, and abruptly her chin is caught by Sera’s hand, and shoved against the smaller woman’s neck. A confused, surprised noise leaves the blooming omega.

“Shit. Okay. Alphas and Omegas are the perfect pairing or some shite. Omegas are hardwired to need it, a knot. You get all squishy and moany until one of em’ shoves it in and locks you tight. Helps you to get pregnant, break the heat cycle. Really all an Omega needs is a lot of sex, a lot a lot of sex, with a toy or someone who can get them loose enough to get a fist in – “

“ **Sera!** ” Cassandra’s strangled voice cuts off the rather vivid imagery that Sera brings to life in words. A knot? Like – oh god – like those toys back home, the ones aimed at ‘super’ kinky people? Fuck. Oh _fuck_. Pregnant? Last that she knew, her womb was currently pregnant, so that – well hopefully it’s a cake walk. Shit. What if it’s fixed? Oh god. But sex? Yes. She’d like sex. A lot of it. Right now, yes please. Jayla groans and shoves her face more securely against Sera’s neck, breathing her in deeply. Sera doesn’t smell like hers. Sera smells like safety, like family.

“She’s got to know! If I don’t tell her now, Viv and Dorian are gonna have a hell of a time when she’s delirious and begging for a cock.” Bless Sera’s crass nature. She’s a woman after Jayla’s heart. Or her knickers. It really depends on the day and how much Sera’s had to drink already.

“Such things can be handled delicately. Or were you raised by a pack of wolves?” The harsh tenor of Solas’ voice makes the dark woman jerk back from Sera. There’s a plaintive, apologetic tone caught in her throat. She doesn’t like him sounding angry. Never has, except when she is angry and screaming at him as well. A face full of his scent hits her again, and her knees buckle, making Sera yelp angrily. In the next breath, the archer is hauling the Inquisitor against her side more securely. Jayla’s face is, once again, shoved into Sera’s neck.

“Double time it, Elvhen Glory. She’s gonna get worse and already she’s got weak knees. You need to go, Cass too.” Sera, in this moment, sounds far more mature than usual. It is shocking to Jayla, who only really sees the playful girl, but not terribly when she thinks about it long enough. This girl was maybe two years her junior, and has lived alone most of her life, a hard life at that. It makes sense.

The passage of time escapes the human woman. She doesn’t focus on any one thing for very long, eyes not taking in their surroundings so much as she attempts to make a game plan for this. Jayla knows she’s limber, she could – theoretically, get through this alone. It makes her flush to think about the logistics of it. She’d need to get her legs up near her head, or tight against her chest, so she is close enough to get her fingers where she needs them and eventually – make that fist that Sera said would help. Another violent shudder runs through the dark woman. She could do that. Maybe. Probably. It isn’t ideal. Ideal was a rough, dark tenor at her back, hands careful on her hips until she goads him into making her bruise.

The Herald is panting by the time they make it to the keep, with Sera scrambling through the ruins for one of the still intact rooms. They’d cleared the place days ago, ready and waiting for the scouts to come and properly claim it. For a compliment of soldiers to secure it properly and make it one of their forward camps. Lucky for them, apparently, the scouts are delayed, as are the soldiers. Not so lucky there are no tents, no proper bed. Jayla is hustled into the room’s corner while Sera lays out a bed roll.

“There, it ain’t the best, but it’ll do. Lay down Quiz, we’ll get things settled, I’ll get you water and food.”  Sera looks as frazzled as Jayla feels. It prompts the omega to mumble how sorry she is. It gets ignored, the blonde not making a sound as she stands and heads for the door. A door, which, decrepit as it is, shuts securely behind the younger woman.

“Got her stowed away.” Sera collapses inelegantly on a stone that had fallen. She looks harried, and Solas, for once, feels for her. She’s been a blessing. Had Sera not been with them, things could have gone poorly. Very poorly.

“The Seeker is sending a raven to the other camp at the lake.” The Wolf grimaces, knowing it will take at least the night for Vivienne and Dorian to make it from there to the keep. A night too long for his comfort. His hands are white, bloodless, as he grips his staff. “I am going to set the wards. Cassandra will be back shortly. We will need to get a fire going.”

Stalking away, he misses Sera’s reply if she makes one. He hasn’t scented Shepard yet, and that is good, but his mind is providing scenarios. His pretty dancer splayed out under him, her neck bared, dark eyes glazed from their exertions. His head shakes, lungs drawing in a deep breath of frosty air. Putting his mind to magic only staves off the thoughts of Jayla for so long. With the wards set, designed to funnel anyone who came into the keep through the large courtyard where Ishmael had stayed. Past that, traps of all sorts direct trespassers away from the smaller courtyard where their Inquisitor is currently hidden away.

In her makeshift bedroom, Jayla is overheating. Her hands rip clumsily at the buckles and buttons of her armor. She just needs it open, needs her pants off. God, she hates pants, they are a bother 90 percent of the time and doubly right now. Her boots slap dully against the wall opposite her, gauntlets clanging on the ground beside her. The jacket, with its heavy pauldrons makes the same sound as it is tossed to the side. Her supple leather pants make a whisper of noise as they sail through the air to land somewhere in the dark of the room. The wash of cold air against her thighs and neck make her breath come easier. She doesn’t feel like she’s going to boil alive anymore.

Lying more comfortably now, and as alone as she was going to get, Jayla catalogues her body’s reactions to this – heat, or whatever the hell. Overheated, thirsty, so thirsty in both meanings of the word, already primed for someone to – _no_. Don’t think about that. Do not. If she does, she’s going to whine, and that means she’ll whine for the attention of a very specific someone.

Metal and Ozone invade her space, prompting the half nude woman to roll, magic prickling along her skin as she watches the door warily. Through the cracks, she can make out dark hair and dented, shining purple armor. It’s Cassandra. Oh. Oh! So, that’s what the seeker smelled like. Jayla could take it or leave it. It’s nice, but, nah. Still, even with it not being at threatening scent, the young earth woman finds herself dragging her bedroll farther from the door nearer the security of the corner. Cassandra wouldn’t try anything – would she? Jayla doesn’t think so. Then again.

Damn it. Are you gay if you go after an omega woman while you’re an alpha woman or were you technically straight? Or is it gay if you’re an omega of either gender and go after an omega of the opposing gender? How the _hell_ does this even work? Why does _no one_ talk about his? There needed to be classes, or a pamphlet, a book, something.

Abruptly, and isn’t just everything sudden right now, Jayla’s thoughts shift back to herself. She aches, that tight wanting feeling that plagues her every time she rises to the edge of orgasm and can’t tip over it. It’s that feeling that says she needs a person or a toy to squeeze around, to make it feel enough, right. Hell, that should have probably been a warning sign, shouldn’t it? Before, Jayla didn’t need penetration to get off. A couple of minutes, maybe some lube, artful swirls around her clit and Jayla was off.  Her hands rub over her face as she sighs, curling up in her blankets while shucking off her vest, her over shirt and chemise.  Stockings, panties, breast band, that is the name of the game for the moment. She can do this. She can. Right now, she needs a nap.

Solas paces around the fire that Sera had started when he was off to set the wards. It crackles merrily, pots already tucked at its edges, just after the ring of stones. He can only scowl at it. All the three of them can do now, with the Ravens sent and wards in place, is wait. Night is falling. It is still far too dangerous to wander the hills and valleys of Emprise without a full group with the light of the sun gone. Nothing more can be done.

His eyes slide to the door Cassandra stands beside. The man has never been more thankful for the presence of the Seeker and Tempest archer. Neither of them reacted to Jayla. It made him hopeful he would not, however, he’s not about to test the theory either. He is, in fact, mostly fine considering the situation. Fine right up until some forty minutes after their arrival, Sera gets up and goes to give Jayla a bowl of stew and a water skin.

He’s been pacing, restless, worried, and the scent slaps him in the face. It hits him hard enough to make him gasp, and then he can taste her on the air. Desire made her scent redolent of his favorite wine. One that hasn’t been seen or heard of in ages now. It calls to him. Sweet, just the slightest note of warm spice to make it acceptable for most courses. It bids him to drink of her as often as he is allowed, as often as he can make excuse to. The keen that builds in his throat is shameful. How old is he in comparison to the woman in that room? It is abominable for him to react to her this strongly and in this manner.

Knowing that, thinking that, however, doesn’t change the fact he _is_ reacting. His length swells, sitting heavy between his thighs, making his breeches rather uncomfortable, making him inhale in deep slow draws to try and quell this feeling. Without a single word to the warrior still standing vigil by the indisposed Inquisitor’s door, Solas leaves the small courtyard. He must, or he will put both archer and seeker to sleep, he will steal away the Inquisitor and claim her until her heat subsides damn the consequences. Solas holds his breath and walks faster. When he is clear of the courtyard, now perfumed with Jayla’s heat, he can breathe easier.

Back pressing against a half-destroyed wall, he turns his head toward the sky, eyes falling on the twin moons that illuminate the keep from under his cowl. The perfume won’t leave his mind, he can’t get the reminder of its taste off his tongue. Rich, smooth, as if he were quenching a long-standing thirst he’s forgotten about. His cock throbs, achingly hard now, his own mind dwelling on what it shouldn’t.  The cold bitter wind does nothing to calm him now, and a low growl of frustration crawls from his throat.

This is ridiculous, he has far more will than what he is displaying. Illustrated by how he has removed himself from the Omega’s vicinity, how he has avoided going to close to the door that shields her from them and them from her. The heel of his hand presses hard against the rise of himself, making him curse lowly. That burst of discomfort does nothing to quell the effect Jayla has on him. Solas is caught between a rock wall and a very difficult place. To leave it will cause him pain, to take himself in hand will be giving in, to claim Jayla was to be utterly selfish.

In the end, his finger tug at the laces of his breeches, deft and eager. This would be far better than returning to the small makeshift camp in an aroused state. If he relieves the desire now, he can return to guard, as he should. It’s the mantra that Solas repeats to himself until the moment his cock is free and in hand. The sensation is almost completely foreign, a thought that makes him laugh sharply.

With such a thought in mind, his thoughts turn to Jayla, to the pair of them teaching one another, discovering what made them gasp and write. He has watched her dancing far too many nights to not have a very good idea of her capability. To not have a clear picture of what she would look like astride him. His eyes slide shut as fingers and palm curl around the girth of his arousal. Imagination running a bit wild, the Wolf pictures the Inquisitor above him, eyes so dark with want they are black, her mouth reddened from his kisses. He can feel her hips in his hands, he knows the curve of them, from the days he has woken curled around her, from sight. He could pick her out in a line up by the curve of her hips and round of her ass without any trouble at all. His mind recalls the way her hips roll when she dances, the figure eights, the gentle waves, and suddenly he can nearly feel the way it would be to have her split on his length and rolling like that.

Gasping harshly, face pulling in concentration, his hand slides along his turgid length in evenly timed, firm strokes. Solas doesn’t even feel the bite of the air now. What matters is the grip of his hand, the pressure and friction of dry, calloused, chapped skin against silk smooth heat. The edge of discomfort has his teeth grinding, bald head tilting back against the cool stones once more.

To banish the whistling howl of the wind, he instead imagines the warmth of the dancer’s embrace. The pitch of her voice as she climbs to her peak. It’s pure speculation, Solas has only heard her yell at him, never whimper or sigh in pleasure, breathily asking for more. Yet, it doesn’t matter, his mind is already running with the fantasy of it. He can see the way her hips are rolling forward, up, back, and down – back arched, breasts thrust out as her head tilts back. He can feel her fingers on his thighs to keep herself held aloft, the brush of her dreads against his fingers as she hilts herself on him again and again. He knows how her face looks flushed from exertion, the scent of her when she’s been working hard, pleased with her efforts. He knows one of her many smiles that convey her satisfaction and that is what has him arching his back, thrusting into the rough fist of his hand and growling completion.

He is chilled almost immediately after his hips have stopped twitching and length stopped pulsing. While the mage is satisfied, the edge of his hunger having been smoothed away, Solas is far from sated. Knowing that has him sighing with vexation, tugging his smalls and breeches back into their proper places, laces deftly retied. Night has fully settled over Emprise du Lion finally, though it promises to be quite long.

Jayla is going to go mad. Never has she ached to be filled so much in her life. In the past, Jayla has been ambivalent about sex. If it happened, it happened, and most of the time she even enjoyed it. Now – she’s writhing with the want of it. It has her considering her companions as she shifts into wakefulness when Sera comes into her room with food. Jayla draws a deep breath to catch her scent again. Pleasant, but not right, not calling to her.

The cognizant parts of her mind want to go against instinct and let the other woman be, to call her back and ask the girl for help. Sera’s offered on more than one occasion to show the darker woman a good time, despite the archer’s aversion to all things magical. Sera’s scandalized Cassandra more than once with tales of her conquests and learning experiences.

Jayla keeps her peace, however, quietly thanking Sera for the meal and water, curling in on herself further as the blonde leaves. Solas’ scent drifts in on the wind moments later, making her shove her face into her pillow. It dims, however, taking on an old feeling the next time her head raises. It makes her face pull into a frown. Cassandra is still by her door, she can scent Sera in the courtyard a trail of the beta scent wafting about the room. Jay is worried Solas left. Enough it makes her wine low in her throat, has her turning her face into the flat pillow again. Jayla doesn’t want him to leave. She wants him here with her, and if not with her within arm’s reach. She wants to bathe in his aura and learn how he looks in the throes of passion.

It doesn’t take long for her to lay flat on her back, smalls hastily shoved down to her knees. The omega is swollen, more than ready, wet almost half way down her thighs. It’s embarrassing, and had she been completely sober, rather than high on hormones, she would likely feel that way. As it is, Jayla simply parts her folds with one hand, the other sliding along her lips, wetting the tips of her pointer and middle fingers before setting them against her clit. It’s a simple, welcome sensation, the circling of digits against the little bundle of nerves. She barely needs to exert any pressure for it to feel good, intense like she usually favors.

Jayla isn’t even thinking about anything for the first few swirls and tilts of her hips. She didn’t need to do more than lie on her back and let her hands go with muscle memory. It had been a while since she dared, living with Solas had put a damper on that method of stress relief. (She’d tried once, just once, and been informed by a red eared, red faced elf in the morning he could _smell_ her frustration.) Yet it’s like she’d never paused in the routine of it. Her body responds quickly, quicker than usual, but that she puts down to time without this stimulation and the heat. A word that still has her shaking her head with the bizarre nature of it.

Her orgasm sneaks up on her, one moment she is rolling her hips, trying to force her body to let go, and the next she’s crying out in shock and pleasure. Her legs press together, trapping her hands as the waves crash over her and pull her under. Her body clenches, and it is the single most unsatisfying feeling in the world. Jayla needs something _in_ her. Something to say she’s full, to push at her walls and stretch her. When it’s over, when her body lets her free, she relaxes, lays back on her makeshift bed dejectedly. She still aches, her nipples ache, are hard enough to cut glass, though the friction of the breast band feels nice, none of it is enough. She just – wants someone over her, surrounding her, another body with her to help alleviate this absurd desire plaguing her.

That need, the ache of emptiness and stimulation increases in intensity the longer she lays still, and the little force come rift mage come rogue, has no idea how long she’s laid here. It’s a little bit terrifying. Sera had alluded to this getting worse, hadn’t she? If so – Jesus. Just. No. How did these people live like this? Surrounded by violence and uncertainty plus a heaping helping of sexual agency being compromised by their own bodies. A dull throb has her squirming, and resolutely Jayla pulls her legs up to her chest, banding her left ar around them. This is going to be awkward, but if it helps, who the hell care?

Still soaked, a fact that surprises her a touch, makes it easy to sink two of her fingers past her lips into her entrance with ease. The mild relief has her sighing, resting her head on her knees. Pumping the digits slowly proves to just make her ache even more, so Jayla shifts positions, legs falling open, left hand holding her left leg up while she eases three fingers into herself. That was better, a leisurely pace doesn’t frustrate her beyond reason like this. Inevitably, however, she wants more, needs more, and another finger is added. If she weren’t enjoying this, addled with hormones, the dancer would be freaked out.

She’s never had four fingers inside her channel. An ex-boyfriend had attempted three a few times in the past, the long distant past, but she’d always squirmed and complained about how it pinched how it wasn’t comfortable or pleasurable. Maybe he just did it wrong. This feels wonderful, so she’s erring on the side of the ex being less than an expert at fingering women. The heel of her hand settles on her clit, and presses down as she thrusts. It’s good. Not perfect, but good. She can live with this.

Solas’ scent returns to the courtyard and it’s – fuck it’s _strong_. Has her eyes flying wide open thanks to the way the wind carries and groaning low in her throat, fingers moving faster. Anything to distract her from the fact the Alpha she wants – she trusts with her life – is just outside the door while she is in here, virtually naked, with her hand practically shoved into her cunt – _alone_. And the second that thought crosses her mind, Jayla runs with it. With him opening the door to check on her, his blue eyes taking in how she’s splayed open, hips shifting to meet her hand. She can practically hear the shocked gasp that would leave him.

Biting her lip, Jayla adjusts her hand on her left leg, bending it to her chest, knee out, her right mirroring it to make a diamond and playing her open further. With a breath, she removes her fingers, biting at her lip as she folds her thumb against her hand. This is the only way she’ll get it in. She’s more ready for this than anticipated, and the slide of her four fingers into her is familiar, but when her thumb slides in, just a touch of stretch, her walls twitching, she makes a strangled noise. The process is slow, her legs twitching, free hand gripping at her thigh with enough force to bruise as she works her fingers into her channel slowly. In and out, a little more each time until her wrist meets her entrance. Her head drops to the pillow, and she pants softly, hips shifting carefully, hand retreating a touch, wondering if a knot would feel like this, be as thick as this, or will it be thicker? A series of shivers dance up and down her spine, she inhales deeply to catch Solas’ scent on the wind. It helps to let her sink back into her fantasy of him finding her like this – walking in on her like this.

She knows him to be a cautious man, careful in how he approaches things. The mage is so tightly wound it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken. Yet, she’s seen a way he can let go. It was violent, but enticed her in ways Jayla isn’t comfortable dwelling on. The young woman enjoys the fire in his eyes when he lets his temper slip the reins of his control. She likes the way he gets quiet and his rumbly voice goes feral and growly as he speaks. She wants to see that, hear that, while he slides inside of her.

However, she also wants her cautious friend. Wants his hands to pet at her legs, coaxing them open again after having slammed shut in shock and embarrassment. She wants gentle kisses that gradually become all consuming. A gentle rasp of tongue against her neck, on her breasts, her thighs. Jayla wants to know what those painter’s hands feel like parting her folds, slipping long fingers inside her while his mouth wraps around her clit. She wants to know if Solas tastes like he smells – wild and dark. Will his cum be salty and pungent, or more pleasant, slightly sweeter with that ever-present dash of salt that cum tends to have in her experience. Would he even let her suck down his length before sliding into her achingly slow just to watch the way her back arches and her mouth falls open?

This time, when the Inquisitor comes, she howls, and it is not a wordless thing. Though, her mind doesn’t register the word at all.

His name. Jayla screamed his name. It drives the breath from the elf, and his hands fist until he feels his nails nearly draw blood. She wants him, calls for him. She’s so close. Why is he out here in the cold, when she is alone and wanting?

Solas slams his eyes shut, grinding his teeth and going against every instinct that screams at him to brush past Sera and Cassandra. To cast them into the land of dreams so he doesn’t need to explain himself or fight them to get to his omega. The cowled head shakes. He can’t go in there. If he does, later, it will be a disaster. The Inquisitor can’t be tied to him of all people, for several reasons. She can’t hold his seed in her womb while his magic is still burrowing into her bones.

“Solas,” Cassandra saying his name has blue eyes snapping open. He hadn’t realized he is panting harshly, audibly, has jammed himself against the corner of the small space farthest from the door and Jayla. The Seeker’s gaze is gentle and sympathetic as she watches him.

“She’s calling you – if you can ease her heat, if she wants you like she’s made clear, you should go. I doubt she will choose another, and you know this will only get worse for you both.” Her accent is thick, cheeks red as she speaks. Clearly the Seeker hasn’t had cause in the past to encourage another alpha to go an omega screaming their name.

“I – can’t. She’s too young, Seeker Pentaghast.” His excuse is a haggard, pitiful, desperate thing. It makes the brunette laugh softly, mirth shining clear in her eyes.

“That woman is leading an army, has faced death more times than any of us like to count, and you would say she is too young to know her mind, her desires? Jayla is stronger than that. She wants _you_ , Solas. Go. Sera and I will stand guard through the night. Vivienne and Dorian will help when they arrive. Go to her.” Stepping aside, Cassandra gives his shoulder a shove, nodding pointedly across to the door.

Between the Wolf and the door is the Archer, looking as if she’s swallowed a rather unsavory frog, arms crossed, eyes like ice as they glare at him. “Go on then, Elven Glory, get in there. Don’t think I won’t be listening to make sure you ain’t hurting her. If you are I’ll stab you quicker than you can think. And if you do yell it – well, I gotta be around for that, don’t I?” The ghost of a smirk touches her lips as she pointedly steps to the side as well.

Solas is about to tell the pair he won’t, can’t, go to Jayla, when a plaintive whimper of his name floats into the yard. The ancient of a man doesn’t realize he’s fade stepped until his hand settles on the door handle. He opens it, and immediately Is drowning in the scent of slick and desire – of Jayla. The door closes firmly behind him, and he thrusts a mage light toward the ceiling of the room. The brightness of it makes Jayla gasp, dark head snapping toward hi.

Hidden in the corner, half draped in shadows, she is a dream. Dark skin glistening, legs pressed to her chest in a bit of a diamond, the white of her stockings stark against her skin, while – _Spirits save him_. A strangled noise leaves the alpha when he sees her hand – her whole hand, buried inside her quim. He walks forward a little, eyes on her, feeling that desperate hunger rise in response to her quiet gasps as her hand shifts farther inside her. Fuck. He would enjoy watching her do that again, sometime in the future, when they could both think without hormones persistently driving them.

“ _Vhenan’ara_ – you called for me,” he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Too dark, too demanding. Yet, it clearly works wonders on the lithe woman on the bedroll, whose hips roll up toward her hand, a little groan falling from her lips. Her hips settle and the hand retreats, she’s – if there are Gods, they have blessed him. He could listen to this, watch this, for days. The Inquisitor is a vision, stripped of all but herself, eyes as black as he imagined they would be.

“Solas.” He’s here. Blue eyes dilated and intense on her. Jayla doesn’t retrain the whimper that his scrutiny causes. Her eyes don’t miss when he begins to harden. Rocking her hips and her hand, she keeps her eyes trained on him, how still he stays, while his eyes devour her.

“You smell like you’re mine,” Jayla whispers it, unsure still, but desperately wanting – needing – him to come within reaching distance of her. For a while longer, her hand and hips work together, ramping up her pleasure, desire, blanketing the room with the smell of it before she reluctantly begins the process of removing her hand. It’s slow, as slow as she’d moved sliding it inside, her head tilting back, eyes sliding shut as she groans with the loss, the stretch of the rim of her entrance again.

Solas is closer without consciously deciding to move.

Her hand slips free of her quim, soaked, glistening in the light, and her legs lay on the bedroll, body shifting so she may sit up, left hand, dry hand supporting her. She’s panting and he’s losing his grip. Hers she said. It implies she’s imprinted on his scent. Spirits, he must close his eyes against the implications, but they snap open again when she whines, thighs sliding slickly together, he can hear it – obscenely inviting. His mind replays the image of her hand slipping free of her body, how her head had been tilted back, the sound of her voice at the loss. He isn’t sure he’s ever moved so quickly, legs eating the remaining distance between them when she whimpers his name again. He places himself at the edge of the bed roll on his knees, right between those beautiful strong legs of hers.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” his voice is a rasp of hunger, throat dry enough he pauses to swallow. “We shouldn’t, you don’t understand what this is, what it will do.” He wouldn’t, shouldn’t, bind her to him. He can’t, not on the path he has set himself upon. His beautiful girl would be a target, and she would wither if he were to keep her in a fortress, a cage, just to keep her safe. Yet, his hand reaches for the one drenched in slick, pulling her forward gently, not thinking as he licks at the back of her hand.

“Explain it to me later,” usually such a mellow alto, Jayla’s voice is smoke and silk, pitched deeper with desire. He can see her core like this, as she slides forward, legs bending at the knees with him between them. She is so pink, wet and inviting. How he hungers to slide down between her knees and lick at her until she shatters, until she’s limp with pleasure. “Tell me later, you smell too good right now,” she’s whining a touch, pleading with him, noticing his eyes and tilting her legs open farther for him. “I just – I want you. This. Whatever. I _ache_ , Solas. Help me. Fuck me.”

His resolve wavers, her taste on his tongue for real now, scent filling his nose, voice in his ears. Panting, unaware when he lost his breath, he gazes at her face, the naked desire in her eyes as she draws quick sips of air. Beautiful, he should paint her like this. In the glory of her heat, wild and real. Paint it and leave it for those who came after to wonder at. To study her, question what woman could be so beautiful, so captivating.

“Solas,” the way she breaths his name, leaning forward so her chest, still bound, is pressed tight to her legs, her face just shy of his face now, is so tempting. She is his one desire in this moment. He would happily forsake _everything_ just to have her. “Solas, please. _Sa – Sathan_.” Her pronunciation of the word is tentative, shaky. He’d been teaching her, along with her Dalish rogue trainer, per her request, and now it is what breaks him. Leaning forward, Solas takes her lips carefully. Her mouth, lips, are soft, plump. Solas would kiss her for years if he could, as he would have in his youth.

He can’t however and instead his body moves to sit between her legs, his knees parting so he can get as close as possible to her. The hand he’d captured, that he’d licked, that has covered his hand in her slick, he now presses against the side of his neck, smearing the moisture onto his skin. The desire to let everyone know she’s had him is too much to ignore. The Wolf already has plans to make sure everyone knows she is his, that he’s had her. That will be for later. Right now, he learns the pressure that makes her melt against him. He coaxes her lips open with his, basks in her happy little sounds every time their lips meet. The older mage almost crows with joy when her tongue darts out to swipe across his lips.

It’s a careful thing, the way their tongues meet, one chasing the other in turn until they pull apart for air. Their faces press cheek to cheek, her left to his right, shifting to they may nuzzle at one another’s pulse points. She breathes him in deeply, squirming until her hand is free of his, and she can clamber onto his lap, making him tilt backward to accommodate her. Laughter bounces off the walls as his arse hits stone, legs hastily shifting so he might sit comfortably, hands settling on the curve of her hips.

The heat of her skin sears the skin of the Rift mage’s hands. Her position as she settles in his lap, places her against the rise of his length, and it drives a needy whine from her. It has him grinding up against her, swearing lowly under his breath. He doesn’t care to stop himself, not now. He is damned anyway, she has him. She wants him, she told him to explain later. He would – later. Now he can only pray that he doesn’t mate-bond the poor girl in process.

Her hands are impatient, her teeth catching the lobe of his ear while her hands shove under his tunic and undershirt. Shove as much as she is able, anyway, with all his belts and pouches in the way, she can’t get far. It makes her release his ear – and thank the spirits, he had only just managed to bite back a moan – rearing back, growling rather adorably as she switches gears. With her aura and her hands, she pulls at his gear until it comes loose little by little. He doesn’t interfere with her, instead choosing to smooth his hands up and down the length of her back; even daring to give her bottom a bit of a squeeze as she becomes distracted with his jacket, belts shoved off to the side. Jacket shoved down around his elbows afterward.

The goose makes her smile, and he’s glad that he came to her before the heat made her wild, unable to control what she wanted, said, or did. He jumps when her teeth sink into his tunic just under his clavicle. It has him hastily removing his harms from the jacket, pulling the tunics up over his head equally fast. Her hands are on his skin in an instant, mouth back on the spot she’d bitten through cloth, tonguing at the slightly red mark left behind. Jayla’s hands are greedy as they learn him, splay over his stomach, along his sides, and this time, he isn’t surprised when her teeth take him.

His hands sink into her hair as she groans, threading into carefully kept coils and tugging her gently away. He keeps the pressure, guiding her until she is tilted back just enough, enough he can do the same to her, and does. Her hips snap against his as he bites. In response, a steadying hand is laid against her back, teeth only letting her free when he knows the mark will last, tongue bathing it as hers had done to him.

Solas’ head presses against her sternum when he lets go of the skin of her clavicle. She is burning for him, not so much yet that she would rush this, rush him. Instead, the Herald simply makes soft plaintive noises, rocking against him in as much as her lover will allow her. Solas allows her much, more interested in tasting as much of her skin as he can, while they have the presence of mind to be careful with one another. Solas bathes her skin with his tongue, drinking in her little sighs and moans, smiling against her skin whenever she tries to spur him on to other things.

He can feel the heat of her against his cock, knows his pants are going to be ruined after this. Her perfume will never come out of them. It doesn’t matter so much as her fingers slide down between them and pull at his laces. Doesn’t think about it again when her fingers slide inside and curl around his length, shocking a moan out of the elder mage. His mageling is quick to stroke him, capturing his mouth when his eyes open and meet hers. Jayla brings him right to the edge before Solas springs into action. The Alpha refuses, absolutely refuses, to spill outside of her tonight. He won’t, not tonight, nor tomorrow, not the whole of her heat.  Solas urges her back, laying her under him, hand shifting from her back to pillow her head while his hips dance away from her hand.

“Patience while you have it, _Vhenan’ara_. _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din,_ I promise you.” The elvish is followed by his lips, a fierce kiss while the fingers of his right-hand slide into her, curling just at touch while he retracts them. Solas eagerly swallows down her moan, noting how her legs squeeze at his hips when he presses at a certain spot on the roof of her channel. He thrusts his fingers along it several times, until her back bows up off the floor, whining loudly, eyes wide but not seeing him. A rush of her slick soaks his hand, yet Solas knows, without a doubt, that Jayla has yet to orgasm. No, he simply has her soaring, not at the sky, not above the clouds yet. This is where he needs her to be, to make sure he won’t hurt her.

When his hand withdraws, Jayla is distraught. Her back settles against the floor, and her hands reach for him, eyes wide, more than a touch crazed as her lover meets her half way. This kiss is not gently, but it is just shy of bruising. He uses it to distract her while he slots himself between her legs, a hand grasping at a hip, the other supporting him by her shoulder. He urges her hips up, nibbling at her bottom lip, her hips shifting without much thought on Jayla’s part. It makes it easy for him to get his knees under her. There is a pause, a moment, where Solas draws away from his little omega, looking at her, with her looking at him. There is an uncertainty in both, but her hands come up to cup his cheeks, and she whispers his name, full of affection.

Solas, shoves at his breeches enough to make sure he is fully free, before sliding into her with a harsh breath, dark eyes on the woman under him. He refuses to miss her reaction, and is more than rewarded. She gasps, her eyes lid, like having him seated in her cunt is a victory. The former god-revered marvels at the feel of her body, as if he’s not had a woman, an omega in the past, but Jayla, she burns him. It keeps him still, relishing this feeling of being connected to her in such a manner. They can’t stay like this forever, and a soft plea – “Solas, _josh_ ,” has his hips rolling against her. Shallow withdrawals are utilized, keeping most of his length carefully sheathed inside her. Solas worries about losing control, and keeps his movements tightly controlled to prevent hurting his ma- no, his friend, his lover.

It works to his benefit, with Jayla easily rolling her hips with him, murmuring his name, soft words in his ear. Some aren’t common, and certainly aren’t elvish, a language of her world that she’s deeply familiar with. Her hands slide from his cheeks, down his neck, across his shoulders, tracing the muscles she feels, taking in how they bunch and release as the man moves within her. This is a situation that is utterly foreign to Jayla, she’d been so desperate, or just on the cusp of desperation when Solas came into the room. Now, now she feels almost like she’s back to normal – eager – but normal.

Her legs curl around his waist, keeping him close, not that he’s been withdrawing far from her, and sets her lips against his jaw, down his neck and up again, sucking insistently at a spot just below his ear. It makes him shake in his arms, her name a low growl on his lips. Jayla likes it – adores it, really. It makes her tighten around him and twist her hips in a way that makes his hand dig into the meet of her hip.

The Inquisitor will have bruises when this is over, bruises and love bites. That idea makes her giddy. There is nothing more that Jayla wants than to be marked by Solas, to mark him in turn, to declare him hers for all and sundry to know, for them to know she is his. Moving her hands away from him, getting them under her to lean up, and clamp her teeth against his neck. Right where it meets his shoulder, and bearing down instinctively until she tastes blood – thick, metallic, it carries traces of his magic. The young mage laps at the wound, hips keeping pace with her lover’s even as his driving movements become longer, pushing into her harder, reaching into her deeper.

The Elvhen General’s mind reels. Jayla has marked him, starting what he’d hoped wouldn’t come to pass. Done what Solas had assumed _he_ would do in a fit of impulsive passion. It’s got him speeding up his thrusts, letting his body take over where his rational mind would have him stop. What Solas does do, is rear up, a hand on her shoulder, pushing her down, away from him, before his hands clamp on her hips as he sits back on his heels, pulling her against him roughly to meet him. The Alpha takes away her movement, but gives her everything he has. His eyes take in her pleasure, smirk on his lips as her eyes become slits, and her face warms rapidly. There is something ridiculously primal and satisfying about seeing his woman pleased with is performance. He relishes this, languishes for long moments in her pleasure, before his left hand leaves her hip, finger marks dark on her skin already, to draw circles lightly on her pearl. The pleasured, happy hum of the woman under him has the spirit born wolf grinning in the light provided by his spell. It’s feral, his eyes flashing in the half-darkness as he keeps observing her.

It doesn’t take long for his Inquisitor, and she is his now, to come apart under him after that. She’s like a vice around him, his name a sharp cry that bounces off the walls around them. Gritting his teeth, the Alpha keeps moving in her, barely keeping form squirming as his knot starts to inflate. He isn’t done yet. He won’t allow himself to be done with her just yet. Not this first time. It has to mark her – to be seared into her memory, into the memory of this place, before he is done with Jayla.

It is only when the lithe omega calms that she extracts himself from her, manhandling her onto her knees. It won’t be comfortable, the bedroll is better than the ground, but not nearly forgiving as a bed, but he can’t – wont – tie her with she’s on her back. He’d crush her if he did.

A hand settles on the middle of her back, and pausing when he encounters the cloth of her breast band, ripping at it, feeling mildly offended he’d not relieved her of that already. After, his hand slides up to settle between her shoulders, to keep her down. When he thrusts into her core this time, Solas feels his control fray. Holding back earlier, desperate not to harm her in any way before her heat becomes more intense, hits her harder – it has him so rapidly unraveling. He is still trying now, even as his hips slap against hers, the obscene wet sound of their skin meeting driving him on. His little lover isn’t silent either. Jayla utters throaty encouragements to him, her chest pressed to the bedding, dark eyes looking over her shoulder at him. He doesn’t miss when his knot begins to catch inside her, he doesn’t miss the way her eyes roll back and her cheek presses against her pillow. The Wolf can’t have missed the way her hips begin to push back to meet him, accompanied by needy little moans that rise in volume.

The knot is pushed into her, pulled out of her at least a half dozen times before it locks in her. He isn’t ready yet for that, his teeth grit, and he pushes, even as her walls flutter around him. Solas can’t do more than rut against her, minimal movement, but he is buried deep and her body – spirits her body. His mate is screaming, squeezing at him, and it’s glorious. Solas very much hopes he will hear this again and again before her heat breaks. Panting, groaning, honestly unaware of his volume, if he’s been making noises prior to this, Solas presses his fore head to her spine, careening toward his orgasm now. Heralding it, he whispers to her in elven, frantic words, slurred just a touch, the weight of them, heat of them clear.

“ _Nuvenan rosa’da’in in ma sule enan’ma, ma sa’lath._ Tell me you’re mine, Jayla. Tell me I’m the last to have you like this, the only one who will share your _iseth._ That only I can give you _esha’lin,_ that you will only accept **my** _garun._ ” That last word is growled as she tightens around him, careening toward snapping again for him, the context telling her exactly what he was saying; even though he’d not told her what those words mean.

“Solas,” she twists her hips like she is dancing, wrenching a cry from her own throat, and an answering roar from him. “Do it. You’re already locked in me, cum, _sathan_ , _ko’u aloha_. Make sure, make sure everyone knows that I’m yours – “

Solas’ teeth find her neck before she stops speaking, rutting against her brutally as he finally let’s go. His teeth break her skin, right where hers had broken his, and she cries out in pain as her body snaps, clamping around him like a vice once more. He lets go when he tastes her blood, her magic, hips twitching against hers. This was going to end poorly for the, but it is done. For now, they just need to survive the next week together in this room while half the inner circle stands guard.

“ _Ma sa’lath. Falon’saota_ , **mine**.” Her murmurs the words tiredly, carefully tipping them onto their sides, curling around her, absent mindedly drawing heating runes into the discarded blanket that he pulls around them.

“Mine, _ko’u kanaka, ko’u aloha_ ,” are echoed as he drops into the fade, face buried in his mate’s hair, mind already looking for her as she slips into dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Vhenan/Vhenan'ara - Heart/heart's desire  
> Sathan - please  
> Josh - Move  
> Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din - I will fuck you until you have no endurance left  
> Nuvenan rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma, ma’sa lath - I want to cum inside you until I spill out of you, my one love  
> garun - cum  
> iseth - heat  
> emma esha'lin - my child - lit my blood person  
> falon'saota - spouse/wife/husband  
> ko'u aloha - my love/my peace/my compassion ( interpret as you see fit )  
> Ko'u kanaka - my man
> 
> Please, please forgive me if my Hawaiian is terrible. I looked it up and just. Yes. Forgive me, correct me (kindly please), but I hope you all enjoyed!


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